


high in the halls

by Ascel



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23316640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ascel/pseuds/Ascel
Summary: "They have a prophecy, you know," Gellert spoke up suddenly, leafing through one of the older books. "The followers of light. They speak of the one who will return to save the world from the dark. Azor Ahai, with a sword forged in blood, who will wake dragons from a stone.""Yes," Albus interrupted him. "I know it."He did know it. He didn't need any boy to recite old child tales to him, even if his voice sounded as smooth as silk felt."But you're not much interested in that." Gellert was, once again, smiling. "No, I didn't think so.""It's only a legend," Albus said curtly."Or so they say," Gellert agreed.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	high in the halls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Marron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Marron/gifts).



> Happy Marron's Day! I'm sorry this isn't the whole thing, but it _will_ be up shortly. It was brewing in my head for long enough.

The air on the Wall was bitingly cold.

Albus went up here alone, looking to get away from the hustle of Castle Black, full to the brim with the visiting army and brother of Night's Watch. It felt suffocating, and it stank: of horse piss, unwashed bodies, and fear.

Albus could endure the smell of the army; he had some experience in it. But the constant noise made it hard to think, and even harder to muster his own courage: to find wisdom and patience to answer the never-ending demands, plan their defence, drew on his last vestige of strength and inspire others to do the same; to not turn around and run, run as fast and far as he could, and never come back to this place.

And so he rode up here, alone, to stand at the very edge of the world and look beyond it.

There was nothing but whiteness. Even the trees were unrecognizable beneath the snow; it all looked like a frozen wasteland, glittering blue in the sun, stretching to the horizon. And then, at the edge of it, a black mass, drawing nearer and nearer.

The dead were coming.

It was so cold here, cold and quiet, with air so thin it could not fill his lungs. The Wall appeared even higher when he was standing on top of it; it seemed impossible it could be built by human hands, and yet. He thought he was used to heights: he grew up in Vale, at the foot of the highest mountains on the continent. But the mountains never reached so high so fast, with such steep drop beneath his feet, and his head never swam when he climbed them.

"Looking for a place to jump?" A quiet voice came from behind him. Albus hadn't heard it in nearly ten years, but he still recognized it in a heartbeat. Once upon a time, it was as familiar to him as his own.

And it was very similar to his own.

He spun around on his heel – his cloak so frozen it didn't even splutter around him – and there was his brother, bunched up in furs, standing on the ice with a slight smile.

"Aberforth," Albus said with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Aberforth shrugged his shoulders, and Albus couldn't help noticing how broad they were.

Last time he had seen him, Aberforth was a slight boy of sixteen namedays, a squire still. He was already tall, taller than most men fully grown, but it always seemed like his limbs were too long for him. He tripped over his own feet constantly, gangly and awkward, and the beard he kept trying to grow was nothing more but three stray hairs on his chin.

And now a man fully grown was standing before Albus, taller than him by almost half a head, with strong built of a knight used to wielding a broadsword and thick, red bread.

"Haven't you heard?" Aberforth asked, still half-smiling. "It's the end of the world. There is no other place anyone should be."

He took a few steps forward, coming to stand beside Albus at the edge Wall, and whistled between his teeth.

"Would you look at that?" He said with a note of wonder in his voice. "Turns out that bastard was telling the truth about something."

Albus followed his brother's gaze to the dark mass marring the whiteness. He wondered what Aberforth thought of it, whether he had heard the stories of the undead the Night's Watch brothers told in whispers or if he ever faced a wraith. He supposed it didn't matter either way: the army, still just a shadow on a horizon, would reach the Wall in a few days at most, and then all of them would have to face Death.

But he had no wish to talk with his brother about any of it.

"That bastard is your king," he said instead.

"He's still a bastard, though," Aberforth replied. "A crown doesn't change the fact he was born on the wrong side of the blanket."

"Don't let him hear you say that," Albus remarked lightly.

He thought of Gellert, who shut himself down in his rooms at Castle Black and hadn't emerged in days. The men grew restless in his absence, whispering about poison or illness, and all of his advisors came to Albus one by one, asking him to talk to the King, beg him to make an appearance, to consider the morale of his army, the fear and distress in the ranks, the quite urgent realities of plans and strategies that needed to be made. But Gellert admitted no one, not even Albus. Not even Vinda, who guarded his doors at all hours.

But Aberforth, of course, would not care about any of those things.

"Why," he drawled. "Are you afraid he will burn another one of your siblings?"

"Gellert didn't burn Ariana," said Albus. _We did,_ he did not add.

In the distance, down below their feet, a mountain of snow moved, as Gramr shook himself and stretched out his wings, dark shadows big enough to block out the sun, and leapt into the sky.

Albus returned home in the spring, to a castle so still and quiet it felt like a grave.

A veil of sadness enveloped it, alongside mist and grey clouds above. Perhaps the skies too mourned the lady of this valley, just like the servants who moved so silently they might have been mistaken for ghosts, just like the wind howling between the stones, a sound like a song of grief. Even the tapestries on the walls seemed to be hanging more forlornly. The castle itself, perched on side of the mountain and overlooking the little valley, hadn't changed much; the stones were still grey and uneven, chirped away with wind and time. It wasn't a seat of one of the Great Houses, with thousands of years of history behind it, but it was their home.

His parents’ old chambers were sealed off; he left them that way, a memory of his mother's death still too fresh, and choose to sleep in his old room. It was still filled with books and trinkets he had thought so fascinating as a boy: pieces of rare stones, figurines bought of foreign merchants, maps of the skies and feathers of tropical birds. Before he left for Oldtown, Albus used to look upon his collection with pride; but now, a man fully grown at seventeen namedays, he found it trivial, full of child's trinkets, and the clutter felt suffocating.

Then again, so did the rest of the castle.

Aberforth avoided him, choosing to spend as much of his time as possible in the courtyard, practicing his swordwork and offering little insight into the castle life. Ariana, too, was quiet, though she remained as sweet and gentle as Albus remembered her.

Most things were almost exactly as Albus remembered them. If it wasn't for the signs of time on the stones and one very noticeable absence, he could've thought this place eluded time entirely. Everywhere Albus looked, he saw reminders of his childhood – and the reminders as to why he wanted to leave this place so badly, to travel beyond these walls and learn, to become someone other than he was: the oldest son of a minor Vale lord turned traitor, who was exiled in disgraced and forced to take the black. A son with no future, besides watching over what little land he had until he grew old and too weary to pick up a sword.

But now Albus was the lord of the castle and he had duties beyond childish dreams of glory which could be found only in old songs. He had responsibilities, and he was the only person who was able to look after his siblings – regardless of what Aberforth thought, he was not yet old enough to be a knight, much less act as a lord, and Ariana...

Ariana needed to be looked after, in peace and quiet, within familiar walls of their home.

Albus tried to remind himself of the words an old maester has once spoken to him. _Whatever challenges the gods put before us, we must face them; and no matter what our fate may be, we must accept with dignity. No man can do anything more._ If his fate was to rule over a small valley, keep ledger and accounts in order, take care of smallfolk and count the sheep, surely he could learn to accept it one day; and then, maybe, he could stop feeling like he was drowning.

So he kept to his duties, one task after the other, and tried not to give in to despair when the papers and ledgers and sums kept growing before him. Running a castle was hard work, he knew, but while Albus did not mind reading and spending his days in the thin light of lord's solar, trying to make sense of his mother's account almost brought him to tears. The only good thing to be said about it was that at least Aberforth would never willingly step a foot in here, and so Albus was safe from his scorn. The dust danced in the air before him, the only company he kept these days. And so he read, as the sunlight moved across the floor, until he was interrupted by a knock.

Albus raised his head, startled, then turned around.

A boy was standing in the doorway, shifting from one foot to another. He couldn't be more than ten, maybe twelve – a page, then, one too lowly born to become a squire, and then a knight. He was only a few years younger than Albus, but of course at that age these few years could as well be an eternity.

"There's a knight at the gate, my lord." The page fidgeted nervously, avoiding Albus' eyes. He was afraid of him; most of the younger servants were, the ones who hadn't remembered him as a boy. "He's asking for a place to stay a night."

"A knight?" Albus asked. "What sigil does he bear?"

"No sigil, my lord," the boy said, shaking his head. "He's a hedge knight. He only carries a black shield."

"A hedge knight?" Albus said, furrowing his brows. Why would be a hedge knight travel through Vale, without the master to serve, and then detour himself from the Kingsroad in favour of visiting some minor lords? There would be no adventure or glory to be found here; certainly no gold. Still, a knight of the Seven should not be turned down at their gates. "Tell the guards to let him in, and the seneschal to prepare chambers in the Southern Tower. And tell the cook the prepare a feast for tonight. We must greet our guest kindly."

The page nodded and hurried out of the door. Albus, returning to the task at hand, thought absentmindedly that he should go and welcome the visitor as soon as he finished here. But surely, whoever he was, the man would not mind a little delay; not if he spent weeks on the road.

By the time Albus tore himself away from the books, the dark has fallen, and his eyes struggled to recognize the shape of the letters in the growing shadows. His back cracked as he stood up, and he wondered whether he should spend more time outside, practicing with his brother and the rest of the retinue, instead of a staying curled up over books all day. Albus snorted, amused; he could imagine a face Aberforth would make, if he was forced to spend more time with Albus than just mealtimes.

He blinked, then, realizing the lateness of the hour and recalling his own orders from earlier, and swore. He should change before the feast – it wouldn't do to show up in clothes marred in ink and rumpled – and he would surely be late. What an excellent way to make a poor first impression on their guest...

When Albus entered the Great Hall – great only in name, as the room itself was barely large enough to fit more than six tables within it – most of the castle inhabitants were already seated and waiting. Albus cringed internally, fully aware they must have been waiting for him, and nodded politely at the old maester Dippet and Alastor, the master-at-arms. Aberforth was at the high table, sprawled over his chair and not bothering to hide his foul mood, which did not bode well for the evening. Ariana, however, was turned away from her brother and beaming, chatting with an unfamiliar man. That would be the hedge knight, then.

Albus wondered briefly how young he looked – no older than Albus himself and hardly old enough to be a knight, much less one who would travel the continent and sell his sword – before the knight turned, and Albus felt like all the air left his lungs.

The boy who stood at the high table looked like he walked out of the legend of Old Valyria.

He was tall and slender, and he looked even more so because he only wore black; but the darkness of his cloak stood in stark contrast to the paleness of his skin, so white it looked like a parchment. It stretched thin over his high cheekbones and angular jawline. And the boy's hair, falling to his shoulders in elegant, effortless waves, was silvery gold.

But the most remarkable – and most unsettling – thing in this face were eyes, big and shadowed, haunted. The right one was blue so pale it almost looked silver; the left was brown, so dark it seemed like it swallowed all the light. Albus had no words to describe them, save for the ones he could borrow from stories about Shiera Seastar – the most beautiful woman in the kingdoms, with golden hair and mismatched eyes. A daughter of a king, rumoured to be a sorceress.

And a Targaryen.

What would be a hedge knight who looked so much like kings and queens of old look for in a little-known castle in Vale?

The boy was still looking at him, quietly calmly, and Albus suddenly remembered he was in a hall full of castle inhabitants and guests. He could feel a blush creeping high on his cheeks, no doubt giving him an unflattering shade, as he hurried to stand beside his sister. Albus was keenly aware he was late, his clothes were askew, and he was standing before the most beautiful boy he had ever seen.

The knight, however, did not seem to mind.

"You honour me with your hospitality, my lord," he said, bowing, with the faintest trace of a foreign accent. Albus couldn't really place it – Braavosi, perhaps? Or maybe he came from Pentos? "My name is Gellert Grindelwald, and I am at your debt."

"It is you who does us honour with your presence, sir Gellert," Albus said, motioning to others to their seats.

Gellert, Albus noted, had waited until both him and Ariana were sitting, only then settling himself in-between them. He held himself with quite a poise and confidence, and even though his clothes were not rich, he seemed to fit in perfectly at the high table. He really had excellent manners. It was a shame the same couldn't be said of Aberforth, who was still sulking at Albus' left, and seemingly held on interest in participating in the conversation.

"Have you travelled far?" Ariana asked politely, as servants started to bring in food. She was having one of the good days, apparently. "I have never heard of the house of Grindelwald."

"Ah, it may be because it does not exist, my lady," Gellert smiled, seemingly unbothered to admit it. "My family is not noble, and I am the first one to knighted."

"You're quite young to be a knight," Albus remarked absentmindedly, before he realized how it sounded.

"I only meant-" He stammered, and then took a deep breath to compose himself. "I do not intend any slight about your skill, my lord, or your honour as a knight."

But Gellert was still smiling.

"I take no offence at the honest question, and one asked in good faith," he said. "I know my path in life had been rather unusual. But I've been lucky, and I had good teachers, and one day one of them was a witness to a deed they thought worthy of a knight."

Ariana's eyes got very wide. "It must have been a really great deed, mustn't it? Was it very brave? Will you tell us the story, sir Gellert?"

Gellert smiled impishly. "Maybe one day, my lady. I fear it would not be a suitable tale for such a feast."

At Albus' side, Aberforth harrumphed, clearly sceptical about this alleged tale. Albus choose to ignore it, as did others.

"What brings you to Vale, then?" Albus asked. "It's hardly the place to look for glory and courageous deeds."

"I'd be glad enough to find some employment." Gellert grinned. "But no, I did not intend to pass through Vale, at the beginning of my journey. I hoped to travel North," he said, not tearing his eyes away from Albus. His voice was low, melodic. Like he was starting to tell some great story or mayhap cast a spell. "See the Wall with my own eyes. They say it's breathtaking; it's so tall, it's hard to believe it was built by a human hand. To stand upon such a structure and look down on the world... I still hope I will be able to see for myself. But my path has changed, and my feet had brought me here."

There was a weird undertone to his voice; it sounded enchanting, almost hypnotic, but Albus couldn't shake a sneaking suspicion it didn't much the knight's words, or his true intentions. And Gellert was still looking at him with such intensity, like he was trying to send Albus a message with just his eyes, a secret language just between the two of them. And Albus was trapped by that gaze, unable to tear himself away.

"And we're very glad they did, sir Gellert," Ariana remarked lightly, obvious to the tension. "The gods must have taken pity on our boredom this winter. I'm sure your tales will make our evenings more bearable."

"I certainly hope so, my lady," Gellert said, though his smile still sent shivers down Albus' spine.

The Wall grew taller the nearer they rode to it, taller and taller, reaching so high it seemed like the sky itself was resting on it.

Albus felt the unease fell over him like the shadow this wall of ice cast. He was riding towards the one place he never wished to see, in circumstances he couldn't have envisioned as a boy, neither in his dreams nor nightmares. At a head of an army which knew him as the king's most trusted advisor, with a breathing dragon and Essosi warriors, about the face the foe straight out of myths and legends – or perhaps death itself. But here he was, riding to the edge of the world, where his father was sent to slowly die in ignominy, alone and forgotten.

The gods surely had a sense of humour, to weave the threads of his fate so.

Most of their men have never been so far in the North; they kept shivering, clad in cloaks much too thin to keep the cold out, and whispering about old magic and prophecies. Albus couldn't fault them for it: it was impossible to scorn faith in destiny or higher power their king rode a creature not seen in a hundred years. And if it made it easier for them to face the darkness, then surely that was a justification enough. If the rumours coming from North were true, the ones about ice wraiths and dead rising and a great force amassing on the other side of the Wall, then who was even mad enough to judge what was superstition and what was the truth? The world around them was full of magic they once believed to be a child's tale.

Gramr roared above them, flying low over the walking army, and Albus watched as the bravest of the men flinched and shivered at the sound.

Gellert has chosen to stay on the ground, this time, and ride among his men. He wore no crown, but his hair shone unmistakably silver, and there was no one in the army who wouldn't recognize him on sight. Murmurs followed him everywhere he appeared; of awe, sometimes, but more often of fear. Albus wondered, idly, who the Westerosi were afraid of more: the dead they were about to face or the man leading them, the one who had crossed the Narrow Sea to take the throne with fire and blood.

But Gellert, as usual, seemed unconcerned about anything that hadn't appeared to him in a vision.

He was smiling when he pulled up beside Albus, coming back from the head of the column. The men walking before them, the ones who came from Reach, fell silent as he passed by, and then followed him with their eyes, faces tight.

"A groat for your thoughts?" Gellert asked, making his horse dance a little under him before the mare fell beside Albus' own. Gellert pulled on her reins, making her come closer, until their knees almost touched.

Albus tilted his head in response. "Do you deem them worth so little?"

"A dragon, then." Gellert just smiled wider, fey and mischievous, just as he had been all those years ago.

Albus tried to smile, too, but he knew it was a poor attempt. He hadn't laughed in a long time; didn't have any breath for it, with the air so heavy with fear. The Reachmen weren't the only ones afraid. It was his own dread, most of all. So he just rode on, silent.

Geller leaned closer, brows furrowing.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

"Of course I am," Albus answered quickly. He nodded towards the banners of the houses from Reach: Florent, Fossoway, Rowan, Rosier... "You should be more worried over them, I think."

Gellert waved his hand, impatient, dismissing Albus' concerns as he so often did before.

"I know you never wanted to come here," he said in a low voice, leaning closer. "And I know why. I understand. If you'd rather turn back-"

Albus shrugged, interrupting him. He was, in all likeliness, the only person who could ever make Gellert fall silent so easily. They had this argument many times by now. He had no desire to repeat it once again.

"I go where you go," he said simply. It had been true for the last ten years, and so it would stay true, as long as the Seven allowed him. He had already chosen his fate.

In Essos, Albus let his hair grow long, and Gellert has taken to braiding it. Gramr, who by that time grew too large to sit upon Gellert's shoulder, would crawl into Albus' lap and demand to be scratched. They used to make quite a picture; a baby dragon, still no bigger than a large dog, lazing around like an overgrown cat, and the man who would be his rider patiently twisting red locks into braids, making them a different each day. Albus had no doubt most of Gellert's Essosi friends – thought perhaps subjects was a better name to call them – disapproved of it, but none of them dared to say anything.

Lord Bittersteel, at least, certainly frowned enough every time he had to be in Albus's presence to make his displeasure clear.

"My lord," he said stiffly as he came into a room to find Albus half-lying in Gellert's lap and petting Gramr lazily. He stopped for a moment, blinked, and then bowed carefully before Gellert, trying to exclude Albus as much as possible.

Albus made a move to sit up properly, before Gellert's hand in his hair. Even if he didn't enjoy being seen like this by others. Gellert did, and he didn't care much about the property at all. They argued about it frequently, but of course it didn't result in anything besides even more improper behaviour.

"Bittersteel," Gellert said, as Albus settled back down. Gramr took is as a signal to find a more comfortable position on his lap, successfully rendering any possible attempts to move useless. She didn't only grow bigger, but quite heavy as well. "You have news?"

"From Westeros," Bittersteel paused, looking meaningfully at Albus.

Gellert waived a hand airily. "Speak, then."

Bittersteel sighed. There was a wry twist to his mouth, like he had to swallow a lemon.

"You will be no doubt pleased to know the realm is stable," he addressed Albus. "The peasants are happy, the crops grow, and all is quite well."

Albus didn't roll his eyes, but it was a close thing. He didn't understand why he should wish ill for his homeland and he didn't try to hide his sentiments; after all, it was the country Gellert intended to rule. Bittersteel, however, not only disagreed, but disapproved of Albus entirely. He also took a strange delight in making his dislike known.

But Bittersteel, for all he was an ass, was also a captain of the Golden Company, the only real army Gellert could count on. Albus tried not to wonder why a bunch of mercenaries would be loyal to a boy less than half their age or how Gellert came to know them. They were good fighters, well-trained and experienced, and they fought together before; if they had to fight Westerosi knights, heavily armoured and bound by a common purpose, to put Gellert on the throne – and all of them knew they would have to fight – the Golden Company was their only hope of evening the odds a little.

So he never asked and Gellert never tried to tell him.

"The usurper is quite secure on the throne," Bittersteel continued, turning back to Gellert, "And his queen is much beloved by the little folk. The great lords hate him, of course, but they won't strike, not yet. Launching an invasion now would be... unadvisable."

Gellert frowned, then stood up quickly and started pacing. "We don't have time to wait."

"Waiting is the only sensible course of action," Bittersteel stated patiently. "Time is your ally. As your dragon grows, so will the rumours; of dragons returned and of the rightful king who rides them. And Westeros is full of ambitious lords – they will jump at a chance to betray the usurper if they think they have something to win in it. But you must have an upper hand for them to do so; a bigger army, a better chance at winning, a stronger claim. Or at least appear to have it. But you don't. Not yet."

Gellert didn't pause in his pacing, ignoring both Bittersteel's glares and Gramr's yelping as she scrambled off Albus lap to follow him. She knew he was mad, even if she didn't know why, and she was quite ready to bite anyone who had irritated Gellert.

"Time won't be an ally to any living man," he scoffed. "If we wait much longer, there will be no realm to win. Or to save."

Bittersteel chanced a look at Albus like he was hoping to find some understanding there. Albus did agree, but he wasn't about to intervene. He'd rather not have Gellert angry at him, and he would be angry, even if he came to see a reason. Especially then.

So Albus just crossed his legs and smiled at Bittersteel, who scoffed once again.

"If you sail right now, you will only sail to your doom." To Bittersteel's credit, his voice stayed firm. "You won't be able to save anyone if you're dead. And I found men die much the same once you put a sword through them, no matter who's holding it."

Gellert swore, but he nodded his assent.

"Very well, then," he said, gathering Gramr in his arms. She really was getting much too big to hold like that. "We shall wait."

"You've got quite a collection in here."

A voice came from behind him and Albus flinched, startled. He didn't hear anyone come in, which was quite an achievement, considering how old the floors in his family's library were. The wood squeaked and groaned under every step like it was unhappy to bear the weight of the one walking it. Minding it wasn't any help and carrying books, of course, only made it worse.

But Gellert Grindelwald, as Albus had learned, moved like an overgrown cat, and apparently could be as quiet as one if he wished so.

"My mother enjoyed reading," Albus replied, turning around to face him. "As did my father."

He eyed the slender figure standing in the doorway, easily recognizable by his silver hair. The hedge knight had been his guest for almost a week at this point, but they didn't have an occasion to speak alone until now. Mostly by Albus design. There was something about Gellert Grindelwald which made him uneasy; or perhaps it would be more accurate to say it made him feel very much at ease, and very curious, and almost tangibly drawn to the boy. So he chose to stay away, terrified of being lured in by unknown attraction, and busy himself with his duties or hide away in the library, while Gellert charmed his way around the castle and effortlessly beat all the opponents he found in the training yard, leaving Aberforth in a terrible sulk. But Albus had managed to avoid him, rather successfully.

Until Gellert had found his way here, at least.

"As do you," he pointed out, walking further in and stretching out a hand to the nearest bookshelf, like greeting an old friend, and caressed the spines of the books standing there. His hand was pale, slender, long-fingered. His skin looked delicate, translucent, with the faint blue veins showing, but his nails were short and uneven. Albus didn't know why he noticed it.

"You've been spending quite a lot of time in here," Gellert continued. He seemed more interested in books than the conversation, but there was something in his voice that made Albus think such an attitude was only a pretence.

"I do enjoy reading," he remarked lightly, wondering what else was he supposed to say in response. Gellert acted like he didn't care at all and wasn't even interested in Albus' answers, but apparently cared enough to take notice of his habits and track him to the library other people seldom used. He clearly wanted something, but Albus couldn't guess what.

"Unlike your brother," Gellert said with a touch of humour in his voice.

Albus laughed. "Well, yes," he said, shaking his head with amusement. "Certainly. I'm not very much like my brother at all."

"Yes." Gellert turned around to look at him, eyes light and curious. Albus' throat suddenly felt very dry. "I noticed. You're quite unlike anyone here, are you not?"

Albus flinched. The question was more direct than he expected and far too close to his own thoughts – and to the accusations he could see in the eyes of other people.

"So are you," he said, straightening his back. He was the lord of this castle; he had no reason to fear being questioned by a hedge knight who owned little more than his armour and sword – even if said sword appeared to be priceless. "Not many hedge knights carry swords made from Valyrian steel."

"And not many little lords from Vale would recognize one," Gellert answered with a smile, seemingly amused at being questioned. "Or study books about Red Priests and the Lord of Light. A bit unusual, I think, for a Westerosi lord to be so interested in R'hllor. The Seven is the only god, after all – and anything else is heresy and superstition, is it not?"

"I've studied in Oldtown," Albus said defensively, although it was not even close to an answer. "Before my mother died. I hoped to be a maester. It's- an academic interest."

"Mhm," Gellert hummed, turning back to the books on the shelves. Albus wondered why the knight sought him out at all, if all he intended to do was make some remarks about books and then stand in silence. Albus was quite sure they both had better things to do with their time, but there was no polite way to simply throw his guest out of the room, and he couldn't possibly continue his readings with the knight still here.

"They have a prophecy, you know," Gellert spoke up suddenly, leafing through one of the older books. "The followers of light. They speak of the one who will return to save the world from the dark. Azor Ahai, with a sword forged in blood, who will wake dragons from a stone."

"Yes," Albus interrupted him. "I know it."

He did know it. He didn't need any boy to recite old child tales to him, even if his voice sounded as smooth as silk felt.

"But you're not much interested in that." Gellert was, once again, smiling. "No, I didn't think so."

"It's only a legend," Albus said curtly.

"Or so they say," Gellert agreed. "But there are other rumours as well. They say the Red Priest have strange powers – terrible, but great."

He took a step closer to Albus, abandoning the book. And Albus found himself trapped by his voice, or maybe by his eyes, radiating a strange light. Whatever the cause, he found himself unable to stop listening.

"They are able to summon fire and shadows, change their appearance, or see the things which have not yet come to pass," Gellert continued. "They don't age, or feel the cold, or hunger. Some say they can even bring back the dead."

Albus breathed in sharply, unable to stop himself.

"But these are just rumours," Gellert said, and at that moment his voice sounded very different. "You said so yourself."

His smiled turned gently mocking, and Albus felt a shudder go down his spine. He couldn't think of a single thing to say in response, and the silence in the room grew more and more stiffening. The particles of dust swirled in the air, highlighted by the afternoon sun, and Albus wished he had stayed outside, with other people, and noise, and all the excuses of business, instead of hiding away here, where he could be cornered so easily.

"I grew up there, you know," Gellert changed the topic suddenly. "In Essos."

"There are no knights in Essos," Albus said reflexively.

"No," Gellert laughed. "There are not."

"My mother was from Lys," he explained, gesturing to his silvery hair with a wry smile. "She was a great beauty, I've been told. Though of course that did not matter much for my father's family..."

Albus furrowed his brows. If Gellert Grindelwald was indeed a bastard child of some Westerosi lord and a woman from Lys, it would explain almost everything about him – the unusual colouring of his hair and eyes, the sword which clearly was an heirloom, his status as a knight without any land. It fit well – but there was something about Gellert which made it very difficult for Albus to believe in any tale of a humble childhood. He seemed... Too sharp and too beautiful, so much it almost hurt to look at him. Too extraordinary.

But maybe Albus spent too much time with his head amid old stories and legends, and thus he started looking for riddles in places there were none.

"The Westerosi lords think every woman from Lys is a whore," Gellert continued. "And they treated her as such. So she took me away, back to her home. I spent some years there, and some more in other cities: Tyrosh, Pentos, Myr... And then I came back here."

He turned his face away, towards the window, and in the wispy rays of the settings sun his hair shone like a spun gold.

"But I knew Red Priests, in my years there," he said, sounding serious for the first time he stepped a foot in the library – or maybe just a little sad. "Some of their powers are more than myths and hearsay."

"Are they?" Albus asked, trying very hard not to sound interested.

"You wouldn't waste time on them if they weren't." Gellert smiled, and Albus thought he would be agreeable to a great many things if it meant he was able to see such a smile. "So. Do you think you could use some help?"

Aberforth used to send him letters, when they were in Essos. The first raven found them on a ship sailing across the Narrow Sea, and Albus admired the cleverness of the bird, who was able to find him even when no maester had been near. He wondered if his brother had trained it himself, even if he wasn't supposed to; he always had a good hand with animals.

They kept coming, after. Dark wings, sure and swift, bearing darker words. Albus stopped reading them after the first few, but it didn't seem to matter. They said the same thing, over and over, until he was sure he could see his brother's looping handwriting even with his eyes closed.

_You abandoned everything, your family, your duty, and your home, for a boy with no birthright and no claim to the throne he is supposedly seeking. You are a turncoat and a murderer and no longer my brother. How do you think he could have mourned her, when he gained everything because of her death?_

By the time they've landed in Westeros, the ravens have stopped coming.

Later, as Albus came down the Wall, Aberforth followed him, quiet and thoughtful. He only spoke once they were safely in the privacy of the room Albus had been given by the Lord Commander. The room was small and sparsely furnished, but in the overcrowded castle it was certainly a luxury few had been allowed. Albus, as the oldest and dearest friend of a young King, was one of those who received preferential treatment, though apparently he wasn't considered important enough for more than a few pieces of furniture, even if he effectively commanded the army stationed at the castle. But until a few days ago Albus didn't think he would have much use for this room – or that he would be spending his nights alone.

"What do you think he will do, after?" Aberforth asked, taking a seat on the only chair in the room. He was apparently intent on continuing the conversation from before, now they wouldn't be overheard.

"After?" Albus repeated. He eyed the bed, the only piece of furniture he could sit on since Aberforth has taken the chair, and wondered if it wouldn't be wiser to stay standing instead.

"After the battle," Aberforth clarified. "When we win."

"If we win," Albus corrected, and then decided to sit down after all. This could take a while. "If any of us survive."

"Oh, I don't know," Aberforth said, with a roll of his eyes. "We have the biggest army in Westeros, mercenaries from Essos, a seven hundred feet high Wall, and a fucking dragon. I don't feel so bad about our chances."

Albus didn't answer. His feelings on this matter seemed very different from his brother's: he had no faith in inevitable victory, not after what he had seen. Their armies, the Wall, even Gramr... it hardly seemed enough to stop what was coming. The army would tire and fall, the Wall could be breached, and Gramr, although magnificent, was only one beast. While the dead, unlike their men, didn't need food or rest; would not stop until reaching their goal. And how could they hope to fight what was already dead, anyway? Gellert seemed to believe they would be able to, but Gellert hadn't talked to anyone in nearly a week, so Albus had to plan their defences on his own. He was alone, facing the enemy so terrible everyone had believed him to be only a child's tale, and Aberforth wanted to talk about their future. He would've laughed, if only he hadn't thought he would not be able to stop when he started.

"So?" Aberforth asked again.

"I don't know," Albus said, massaging his temples. He could feel a headache brewing behind his eyes, one born from too much time spent reading and looking at maps in a too dark room and not enough food or sleep, and the current topic wasn't helping it in the slightest. "Rule, I suppose."

Aberforth scoffed. "Gellert Grindelwald was never satisfied with anything in his life. You think a crown and some fancy clothes will change that?"

Albus, once again, stayed silent. He could answer with an endless string of excuses and sidesteps, from _do you think a crown and fancy clothes is all there is to being king?_ to _you don't know him as I do._ But even if he pretended otherwise, Aberforth's words echoed his own fear: he knew Gellert better than anyone else, after all. Gellert, who was the best swordsman Albus has ever met, a brilliant tactician, and more clever than any man should be. He was so beautiful it sometimes hurt to look like him, a Valyrian prince who seemed to come from a legend, with his alluring eyes and honeyed words, carrying a legendary sword long thought lost. He brought back dragons into this world and hope when they all needed it the most, and yet... and yet Albus knew him; knew the shadows in his eyes, the madness lurking behind them. He knew firsthand how ruthless and cruel Gellert could be, how he eschewed all the rules and conventions, how nothing could stop him from getting what he wanted. How terrible he grew in his rage. Gellert once said Targaryens were dragons, and dragons cared nothing for anyone's judgement. Albus had helped him gain the throne, but what if all he had done was give a crown to another Mad King, one with the power to bring doom on all of them?

"You can pretend along with everyone else he's a paragon of virtue or a prince out of a song come to save us from darkness," Aberforth continued, voice rising. "It won't change the truth. He would burn the world if he couldn't bend it to his will – and you think he will, what, sit in the Red Keep for the rest of his life, care for smallfolk and listen to the endless complains of the nobles?"

"It's all he's ever wanted," Albus said quietly.

Aberforth paused, looking at him askance. He furrowed his brows, like Albus has said something surprising, and then smiled slightly.

"Not all," he said.

Albus put his head into his hands, allowing his hair to fall forward and hid his face. He wore it long, because Gellert like it long, and it fell down his back in auburn waves. The Northerners marvelled at their colour; it was good luck, they said, to be kissed by fire. Albus didn't feel lucky at all. There was only a slim chance they would survive the coming battle, but if they did...

"And what would you have me do?" He asked his brother.

It was Aberforth's turn to stay silent.

"The Targaryens were mad." When he finally spoke, his tone was gentle and deceptively calm. "And if Gellert is anything like his family – and you know he is, you know it – you are the only one who has any hope of stopping him."

This time, Albus did laugh at his brother's words.

"He has a dragon, remember?" He said bitterly. "He can do whatever he wants."

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I'm grateful for any criticism or thoughts you may have.


End file.
